


i would choose to be with you, if the choice were mine to make

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 18:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13196220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: Bernie returns to Holby on New Year's Eve. Serena's more than happy to welcome her. (A mild excuse for what is basically PWP)





	i would choose to be with you, if the choice were mine to make

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always goes to [ktlsyrtis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis) for being the best.

Serena doesn’t have long to wait before she sees a shaggy blonde head coming through customs, a small backpack slung over her shoulder. Her skin is tanned, her hair lighter. Serena’s seen it, through patchy Skype calls and photos texted at odd hours of the night - Bernie never thinks of the time differences, and Serena never minds. It’s different in person, though, and makes Serena think more forcefully of the soldier that is coming home to her. Her mouth is drawn, too, her eyes distant and dark.

But Serena can tell the minute she’s caught sight of her, because it all falls away - Bernie’s posture eases, her cheeks crease in a smile, her pace quickens. She drops her bag to the ground when she gets to Serena, pulls her into her arms, holds her close, and Serena can hear, can feel, Bernie breathing her in. “I missed you,” she whispers into Serena’s neck, and Serena nods, just holds tight right back. 

Bernie pulls back just slightly, looks deep into Serena’s eyes, her gaze flicking down to Serena’s lips, and then they’re kissing, right there in front of the baggage claim. Serena thought she remembered how well Bernie kissed, thought her memories were accurate and true, but they all pale in comparison to this. The pent-up loneliness and longing pouring from Bernie’s mouth, her body pressed tight against Serena’s, her hands gripping at her shoulders, her back. 

It’s only the sound of a wolf whistle that makes them spring apart, remembering they’re in public, remembering that the Holby Airport is not the best place for romantic reunions. Serena’s face is red, but her mouth is happy, and she grasps Bernie’s hand in her own. “Home?” she asks.

“Home,” Bernie agrees, her eyes twinkling as she squeezes Serena’s fingers.

-

“Jason?” Serena cautiously calls out into her house, can’t quite remember whether he’s set to be home or not, the excitement of Bernie’s arrival, of being in her presence again, making her head quite foggy with desire, lust. There’s no response, and Serena turns to Bernie with a Cheshire smile on her face, cheeks creased and dimpled, eyes dark. Bernie’s mouth is on hers faster than she can say “Bob’s your uncle,” her tongue pushing between Serena’s lips, sliding against her teeth. 

She pushes Serena against the wall of the hallway, a little rough, a little forceful, surprises a yelp of pleasure that seems to come from the back of Serena’s throat. Bernie moves from Serena’s mouth, moves along the line of her jaw, noses into the parenthetical crease on the side of her lips. Her teeth nip at Serena’s neck, right where the tendon is firm, visible. Serena starts to move, to pull Bernie along with her, towards the stairs, and Bernie stands firm, tugs back against Serena’s hand, turns her so she’s facing the wall, slides her hands against Serena’s sides.

“Not yet,” she hisses into the nape of Serena’s neck, her breath hot and warm, the wetness making Serena shiver against Bernie, and she subtly moves backwards, her back coming into contact with Bernie’s chest and she can feel that solid, lean frame pressed against her. She places her hands on the wall, her forehead resting on her fingers, a meager pillow, as Bernie pushes down Serena’s trousers, pushes her hand inside Serena’s pants. 

Serena is already wet, already panting for it, and she feels her pulse quicken as Bernie’s forefinger just toys with her, small circles through the coarse hair, slowly drawing the wetness through her curls. Bernie trails the same finger up Serena’s stomach, bringing the musky scent with it, a path Serena thinks she will follow later. Her finger draws a few lazy circles around Serena’s navel, Serena’s skin alight and tender, every touch like a thousand pin pricks.

Bernie mouths against Serena’s neck, licks her just at the base of her hairline, where the hair is shorter, scrapes her teeth there too. Serena feels a moan escape from her lips, a guttural sound she almost doesn’t recognize. Bernie always seems to find a way to elicit strange, foreign noises from Serena, as if everything with them is destined to be new, to be a first.

Bernie’s hand is again at Serena’s hip, gently urging her to turn once more, and Serena does, an awkward shuffle with her trousers at her knees, but she’s unable to resist any of Bernie’s insistent touches, never able to deny Bernie anything. She can see Bernie’s face in the dim hall, a slant of light from the window in the front door making Bernie’s face seem more pale, more alien, more elegant. She kisses Bernie, long and deep, pulls at Bernie’s bottom lip, holds it between her teeth, letting it go with a small pop. 

The smile on Bernie’s face is almost predatory, feral, as she sinks to her knees in front of Serena, her hands holding firm at Serena’s hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her skin, her nails leaving crescents that will no doubt be present tomorrow. Bernie begins her ministrations at Serena’s navel, retracing the path she’d drawn earlier, circling with her tongue, and Serena has to tilt her head back, an almost painful thunk against the wall. “Lie back and think of England” flies through her mind and she almost laughs, but doesn’t want Bernie to think there’s any humor in this, doesn’t want to do anything that will stop Bernie from doing what she’s doing.

Bernie is slow and careful in this moment, she is taking her time. Her mouth is purposeful, direct, and she is focused as she works her way back between Serena’s thighs. There’s something about that bright head of hair tucked between Serena’s half-clad legs that makes heat spike straight through her body, and Serena’s hands go into the messy strands, tugging slightly. Bernie pauses, pulls back enough to look up at Serena through heavy-lidded eyes, her pupils dark and wide, and Serena uses her hand to guide Bernie back to the task at hand, doesn’t miss the small smirk on Bernie’s lips as she resumes her ministrations.

Serena once thought she enjoyed sex, loved it, reveled in it. Sex with Bernie is another beast entirely, it drives her up the wall, it makes her coil up like a spring, it keeps her body on edge, alert. It’s like nothing she’s had before. Bernie likes to tease, likes to keep Serena on the ropes, likes to make her sweat. She ghosts her mouth against Serena, her breath tickling the already sensitive skin. Serena’s hips buck slightly and Bernie laughs, a low sound that makes Serena thrum, a vibration that she can feel from her thighs to her toes.

And then Bernie begins to lick, to suck, to act as though her _raison d’etre_ is to explore every inch of the inside of Serena’s thighs. Her tongue swirls around Serena’s clit, light touches, barely there, and Serena’s fingers clench slightly against Bernie’s scalp, desperate for more pressure, desperate for the release. 

She draws Serena into her mouth, her lips closing around Serena’s skin, and she feels like she’s being swallowed, being taken in completely, becoming something else. The first time she did this, Serena tried to make out words being spelled out inside her, tried to find the hidden messages Bernie was leaving with her tongue, imagined there must be something there. She asked Bernie, when they were sated and spent, staring at each other with heaving chests, and Bernie just shrugged, rolled into Serena, her tawny mane tucked under her chin and whispered, “There’s no hiding anything from you.”

Her teeth, her lips, her tongue, all work together, and Serena thinks she can see why Bernie must’ve done well in the army, coordinating attacks with precision, with ease. When Bernie licks inside of Serena, her tongue swiping against her inner walls, Serena can’t help but thrust towards Bernie, her hips operating independently from her brain, every coherent thought shutting down, the only thing that matters is getting Bernie Wolfe to make her come. 

One of Bernie’s hands drops from Serena’s hip, her fingers coming up to join her mouth, teasing into Serena, pulling her open, laying her bare, and Serena bites at her lips to stop from yelling out, but can’t quite stop the quiet ‘fuck’ that falls from her lips as Bernie nips right at Serena’s clit, the pressure painful and pleasurable and Serena feels a pulse of heat go through her, feels the wetness that she knows will coat Bernie’s face, her cheeks. 

Bernie doesn’t stop, keeps pushing, prodding, keeps up a slow rhythm, and Serena thinks she must be enjoying this beautiful torture. She’s told Serena she could do this forever, just wants to taste Serena on her tongue, to feel the warmth from between her legs. She pushes at Serena’s legs, widens her stance, and presses another finger inside of her. Serena almost groans at the pressure, feels as though her body will melt against the wall, as if she’ll have to be scraped from the floor and taken to bed. 

Bernie must be able to feel Serena’s shuddering, feel her unspoken cries, because she twists her fingers, her knuckles offering a counter pressure to her fingertips, and her mouth is hot and wet and strong and she licks into Serena once more. Serena thinks her fingers have gone numb from their hold in Bernie’s hair, the blonde strands almost cutting off her circulation. She doesn’t stop the moan that escapes her, is thankful for Bernie’s presence between her legs because it stops her from falling over. 

She closes her eyes, tries to calm her breathing as Bernie pulls away, rocks back on her heels, swipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, licks her fingers with the poise of cat that’s gotten the cream, her tongue going between the digits in a perfect display of the technique she’d demonstrated moments earlier, and Serena feels weak from the sight of it.

“You’ll be the death of me,” she says, when she’s caught her breath, when Bernie’s stood beside her once more, tangling their fingers together again. She steps out of her trousers, kicks them aside, leaves them in a pile on the floor, seems like less work than pulling them back up over her sticky thighs.

“I hope not,” Bernie says, tugging at Serena’s hand, continuing on the path Serena tried to start them on what feels like hours ago. “I have much better plans than that.”

-

Serena’s bedroom is a different place when Bernie is in it. Without her, it feels lonely, a bit sad. Serena used to like the sanctuary of her room, the privacy it afforded her, an escape from the frustrating, turbulent world around her. But since Bernie became a regular fixture in her life, Serena has found a certain joy in sharing this space, and found a certain void without her there. 

She pulls Bernie to the bed, the soft duvet welcoming them, Bernie’s hair spreading out against the lavender quilt. Serena reaches for Bernie’s shirt, fiddles with the buttons, finds herself suddenly self-conscious. Bernie’s hands joins her, and together, they work the buttons through their tiny holes, the shirt falling away from Bernie’s body. Serena leans down to kiss Bernie, finds that she’s still in love with the taste of Bernie, the feel of her, will never tire of it, not ever. 

Serena has noticed that Bernie likes her hair, the grey, the way it fluffs around her head, the way she combs it back. Bernie’s hand traces the path of the brush, sliding smoothing against her forehead. Her fingers have a little more purchase, more to hold on to, and Serena likes that too.

Likes the way her fingers curl against her scalp, the way her nails scrape against her head. Likes the look in Bernie’s eyes when she tugs gently, guiding Serena’s head just where she wants it

She thought she’d feel self-conscious when she finally stopped dying her hair, thought she’d feel old, obsolete. Instead she remembers the way Bernie’s eyes lit up when she saw her hair for the first time, feels powerful, strong, feels younger than she’s felt in years. With Bernie’s hands in her hair, Serena feels like she can do anything, with Bernie murmuring words of adoration in her ear. She slants her lips against Bernie’s, slips her tongue into Bernie’s mouth.

She moves down Bernie’s body, Bernie’s hands never leaving her salt-and-pepper strands. Bernie guides her mouth, her lips, her tongue, right to her thighs and Serena delves right in, her favorite place, her favorite taste. She’s rough, uses her teeth and tongue. Bernie’s hands tighten in her hair, pulling and pushing all at once and Serena smirks into the cleft of Bernie’s legs. 

She thrusts her tongue into Bernie, licks her deep and long, doesn’t stop until she feels Bernie’s grip slacken, Bernie’s legs go a little limp. She allows for a brief pause, a moment while Bernie collects herself, and then dives right back in, Bernie’s hands falling away as Serena is relentless in her pursuit of ensuring Bernie comes again and again. 

Serena tries to put everything into this, the loneliness, the sadness, how much she loves Bernie, how much she missed her. She wants to get these emotions out, wants to make sure they don’t cloud the rest of their time together. She nips at Bernie’s clit, circles it with her tongue, feels another orgasm quake through Bernie and doesn’t stop, keeps Bernie right on the edge, won’t stop until she’s had her fill.

Bernie’s hand only comes up once more, to cup Serena’s cheek as she slides her mouth from between Bernie’s thighs. Serena sits back, dislodging Bernie’s hand, straightens her hair with her own fingers, sets herself in order, her mouth pink from exertion, her cheeks flushed with desire, and she smiles at Bernie, limp with satisfaction, just a blissful smile on her face, eyes closed as she slips into a post-coital doze.

-

They pull on shirts, just enough for modesty’s sake, though modesty seems futile at this point. With furtive smiles and gentle touches, they find dinner, foraging through the cupboards. Serena finds crackers, some cheese leftover from her Christmas party. She puts together a little plate while Bernie pours wine into glasses, overfills them, says she would rather not make a return trip downstairs. Serena knows from her predatory smile that Bernie doesn’t want to leave the bedroom, wants to spend the rest of the day, the rest of her life, with Serena splayed out, naked and willing, and a flush covers Serena’s skin, already covered with goose pimples from the cold air.

Bare feet traipse back upstairs, too close, legs tangling on the steps as Bernie pushes Serena against the banister, kisses her deeply, only moderately careful to keep the wine from spilling. “Watch the shiraz, dearest,” Serena says against Bernie’s lips, kissing her once more, gently, before pulling away and walking up the stairs, leaving Bernie to follow. 

They eat, cross-legged on the bed. “I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers,” Serena says, unable to resist the joke, and Bernie makes a show of cupping her hand below her mouth to catch any crumbs. She hums the opening line of the old Barbara Mandrell song, which is completely lost on Bernie. 

When they’ve had their fill, or enough to sate them for the time being, Bernie puts the tray of crackers, mostly just crumbs at this point, on Serena’s bureau, out of the way. Serena finishes the last of her wine, drains the glass, licking a drip from the rim, and sets her glass beside Bernie’s on the bedside table. 

She reaches for Bernie’s hand, draws her back down onto the bed, enjoys the smooth slide of skin against skin as their legs tangle. She slips her hands under Bernie’s t-shirt, a ratty old RAMC one unearthed from the closet, left behind with a few other odds and ends when Bernie went to Sudan. Her mouth is hot and wet against Bernie’s tanned skin and Serena thinks she can feel the warmth from the sun across the world emanating from Bernie as her fingers feel their way around Bernie’s torso. She pulls the shirt up over Bernie’s head, catching on her hair slightly, using her fingers to smooth away the tangles, to toss the shirt aside, Bernie’s body bare beneath her. 

“You’re beautiful,” she breathes, and Bernie colors, slight pink at the apples of her cheeks. She’s unused to compliments, unused to being desired in this way, Serena thinks. She’s got an ongoing campaign to make Bernie used to being told how lovely she is, how much Serena wants her, how much Serena cares for her. 

Bernie doesn’t lie idle long, tugs at Serena’s shirt too, fiddling with the buttons that haven’t been done up properly. She pushes the fabric from Serena’s shoulders, kisses her collarbone, the pale skin lightly dusted with freckles. She mouths against Serena’s breast, teases a nipple with her tongue, teases it to a peak, then lets her teeth graze against the sensitive skin and Serena bucks at the touch. 

Serena slides a thigh between Bernie’s legs, lets Bernie grind against it briefly, feels the wetness spread against her leg, smiles into Bernie’s hair as Bernie’s mouth continues to minister to her breasts. Sometimes Bernie looks so fragile, lanky and long, with fine hair and a tentative smile, but in these times, she feels so firm and strong and real under Serena’s hands, feels nothing but robust, sturdy, and it makes Serena feel a little wild. 

Bernie moves back up to kiss Serena, her lips warm, and she ruts against Serena again as their tongues tangle in her mouth. Serena’s hand goes between them, slides into Bernie easily, one finger and then two. There’s a bit of a mess of fingers as Bernie’s hand comes to rest against Serena’s thigh, her finger toying at Serena’s clit. It’s a bit awkward, but they’re both moving towards the same goal in the end. The tangle of limbs is still foreign to Serena, but she likes it, loves it even. 

She comes quickly, still keyed up from being with Bernie again after so long, still ready and wanting and gasping for it. Bernie follows soon after, when Serena slips a third finger inside of her, spreading her, her thumb toying with Bernie’s clit, her thigh still strong between Bernie’s legs. She kisses Bernie as she comes, swallows her moans in her mouth, bites at her lip, wants to keep her coming and coming as she flicks her fingers again and again. 

She moves above Bernie again, ungainly maneuvering to get a leg on either side of her, the heel of her hand pressing against the coarse hair as she works to keep her fingers inside Bernie, her arm twisted awkwardly, though Bernie seems to like the different angle, the change in pressure, if her breathy moans are anything to go by. Serena feels like she could come just from this, from the pleasure of watching Bernie’s face and the feel of her body beneath her. 

She loves the feeling of straddling Bernie, loves the power she feels, her hips spread wide, her thighs clenching around Bernie’s body. Another orgasm overtakes Bernie, her eyes closing, her head tilting back. Serena slides her hand from Bernie, sticky and warm, and brings her fingers to her mouth, licking around the joints, knows Bernie is watching her through heavy-lidded eyes. Bernie smiles, a slow, sexy smile that makes Serena feel aquiver. Her hands come up to Serena’s hips, her fingers pressing into the soft skin there and slowly, tentatively, Bernie coaxes Serena to move up her body, to keep her legs on either side. 

Serena doesn’t quite understand at first, winces slightly at the feel of her legs spreading across Bernie’s shoulders, but then Bernie’s hands prod Serena up, her rear slightly aloft, and she braces her hands against the headboard, fingers tense and white, and Bernie’s ever-present, ever focused hands, guide Serena to the desired position, and Serena can feel Bernie’s breath, warm, damp between her thighs. 

They’ve not done this before, Serena thinks, as she feels like she’s riding some sort of elegant beast. Bernie’s mentioned it, during furtive phone calls, in the spare moments of brief privacy, how she wants to feel Serena’s legs around her, how she wants to be enveloped by Serena’s musky scent, how she wants to bury her face between Serena’s thighs. So Serena’s thought about this moment, this feeling, but it doesn’t quite measure up at all to the reality of Bernie’s tongue filling her up, a new angle, her fingers pressing deep into Serena’s thighs, pale imprints left behind every time she shifts her grip. 

Bernie seems intent on exacting revenge for earlier, of making Serena come endlessly, a wall of pleasure that she’s sliding down, with no obvious finish line in sight. She’s conscious of the clenching of her thighs, of not pressing too hard against Bernie’s ears. Her knees ache slightly from the position, from being pressed into the mattress, from being bent for so long, but Bernie’s strong, forceful mouth drives those thoughts from her mind, and everything telescopes down to Bernie’s tongue inside of her, to the waves of pleasure shuddering through her. 

The heels of her hands press against the headboard, and it’s only when Bernie cranes her head, uses her fingers against Serena’s hips to edge her backwards, away from her mouth, that Serena uses her hands to push away, levers a leg over Bernie so she’s sitting next to Bernie’s reclined form. She feels weak, boneless with happiness, thinks she won’t quite recover any time soon. 

“Did that…” Serena starts, always a little worried she’s never quite going to live up to the imagings of Bernie’s filthy mind, Edward’s indelible mark on her psyche.

“More than,” Bernie answers, licking her lips, knowing the question even without all the words. She rolls to her side, kisses Serena right at the iliac crest, follows it with a sharp bite, a nip that will no doubt leave a bruise. Serena’s hand drops to Bernie’s hair, tangles in the cornsilk strands and she wonders how she got so lucky.

-

Bernie draws a bath while Serena luxuriates under her duvet, unwilling to leave the warm cocoon of her bed just yet. It’s only when she can see steam drifting, filtering away in the warm light that’s spilling out from the bathroom, that she deigns to rise. Bernie’s settled in the tub, smiles as Serena enters the room, her feet cold against the tiles. She holds up a hand to help steady Serena as she steps into the tub, and Serena grips it gladly, only letting go so she can settle against Bernie’s body, her long frame surprisingly comfortable. 

Bernie’s arms encircle Serena, her legs bending, pretzeling around Serena’s hips, and Serena feels well and truly happy, surrounded by the woman she loves. She leans her head back against Bernie’s shoulder, her lips just at Bernie’s ear and she takes advantage of her position to nip at her, just there, to kiss the sensitive spot behind her earlobe, to nuzzle into Bernie’s hair. 

“I’ve thought about this,” she murmurs, low and husky, and feels Bernie’s hum of contentment. “I’ve thought about you and me, here in this tub, the warm water around us. Your fingers beneath the water, maybe some bubbles to hide our movements, making it all the more surprising when you slide into me.” Serena can feel Bernie’s body tense slightly, knows she’s not uncomfortable, can feel her pebbling nipples against her back. 

They talked like this while Bernie was away, Serena coaxing her into saying what she wanted, what she liked, and could never quite get enough of the filthy things dripping from Bernie’s mouth. Bernie noses against Serena’s scalp, kisses her temple, where her hair is greyest, fluffiest. And then she slides her hand right between Serena’s thighs, two fingers in before Serena can take a breath. 

“What happens next?” Bernie asks, happy enough to take direction, to bring Serena any pleasure she desires. Serena rests her hands against the outside of Bernie’s knees, holding her close, her thumbs just barely rubbing back and forth against the wet skin. Bernie flinches a little, slightly ticklish there, and the movement drives her fingers inside Serena more deeply. 

“You might toy with me a bit, keep me on edge,” Serena says, not able to draw up much coherency, not with Bernie actually here, actually with her. It’s different over the phone, with miles and miles between them, and only her own fingers. But now Bernie is wrapped around her, waiting for Serena to give her suggestions, her hands moving at Serena’s whims. 

Bernie _does_ toy with Serena, circles with her thumb as her fingers start a slow rhythm. Her other hand comes up to cup Serena’s breast, mirroring the movement of her hand below the water. It’s nice, slow and nice and satisfying, and Serena thinks she could stay like this forever, till her fingertips wrinkle, till the water turns cold. She kisses Bernie’s jaw, licks at the mole just there and then captures Bernie’s mouth as she turns her head. Bernie slides her tongue between Serena’s lips, her fingers still proving dextrous even with her mouth occupied, and she lets Serena stay on the edge, teetering, tense, happy, for a long moment, her fingers never stopping their movements even as her mouth kisses Serena languorously. 

When Serena comes, it’s not with a start or a shout, but it’s a wave that rolls through her, that starts at her toes and ends at her scalp and she can’t think of a time she’s felt more taken care of. Bernie’s arms encircle Serena once more, holding her close, and they sit like that for a time, the quiet sloshing of water the only sound. 

It’s only when Serena feels Bernie shiver that she stands, this time holding her hand out to Bernie, helping her out of the tub. There are two bathrobes hanging on the door, one that hasn’t been used in many months, though Bernie slides her arms into it easily now, knots the tie at her waist, the light blue just as lovely as it was the day Serena brought it home for her.

She leads Bernie back to bed, pulls the duvet over them, rests her forehead against Bernie’s and lets her eyes flutter closed, feels Bernie’s breath slow against her cheek.

-

Serena isn’t sure of the time when she opens her eyes again, Bernie curled into her, her soft hair tickling at Serena’s nose. Her arm is heavy underneath Bernie’s shoulder, she tries to pull it free without disturbing Bernie, fails miserably as Bernie blinks blearily, looks up at Serena, a moment of confusion before happiness spreads across her face.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for Christmas,” Bernie mutters against Serena’s shoulder, the house quiet, the air thick with their contentment, their passion.

“But you made it for New Year’s,” Serena says, her eyes still closed, snuggling further into the pillow, jostling Bernie slightly. She pats at her awkwardly, not exactly sure where what body parts, ends up with a finger at the corner of Bernie’s mouth, the rest of her fingers landing at Bernie’s neck. 

“And I think I made you miss the fireworks,” Bernie says, her voice sounds groggy and sleepy, not at all apologetic.

“Mmmm,” Serena says, so close to sleep, “I think we made some fireworks of our own.” She turns against the pillow, places a sloppy kiss against Bernie’s scalp. “I’m glad to start another year with you.”

“Me too,” Bernie mumbles, sleep overtaking her as well. “Me too.”


End file.
